


Ulterior Motives

by stcrmpilot



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, is this a character study or a crackship?? we just don't know!, why is narvin such a touch starved repressed moron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 10:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20044690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: In which Narvin resolves a schoolboy crush.





	Ulterior Motives

**Author's Note:**

> Why have I done this? Why was I legally allowed to do this? How do Time Lords turn one (1) friendly touch into a T rating? All great questions. 
> 
> Anyway this reads to me as Narvin being an asexual dumbass who can't tell the difference between love and desperately wanting a supportive mentor, which is made shockingly cursed when that mentor is Vansell, as I have recently discovered. I hope y'all hate this as much as I do.

It is, admittedly, not entirely a coincidence that Narvin runs into Vansell in the CIA records room. He would maintain otherwise until his dying day and beyond had anyone else been present to witness it, of course. But it's down to a tiny bit of delicate planning on his part that he has the southeast corner of the archive to himself when Vansell comes to retrieve a file. 

His expression of concentration lifts slightly when he spots Narvin—not quite a smile, but far from a frown. "Hello there, Sub-Coordinator," he says, wandering off-course to greet him. "Job treating you well?"

Something flutters in Narvin's stomach at the use of his newest title. "Ah… yes, sir," he answers, ducking his head to hide the grin threatening to spread across his face. "Er, brilliant, yes."

"Well, how lovely," says Vansell. A measure of amusement makes itself known in the lines around his eyes, and Narvin quite suddenly finds it difficult to return his gaze to the shelf. "I hope you'll excuse my haste, Narvin, but I really must get back to it.  _ Renegades, _ you understand."

"Of course," Narvin murmurs. He's almost glad for it; the sooner Vansell leaves, the fewer opportunities he has to do something foolish, which is a distinct possibility given that his mind feels like it's stuffed with cotton and his body seems determined to develop a heart palpitation. 

"Ah! Now that I mention it…" Vansell places a hand on Narvin's shoulder, guiding him back a step as he plucks a file from the shelf in front of him. "Good day, Narvin."

"Sir–" 

Vansell pauses in the middle of turning to leave, and Narvin freezes. He hadn't actually intended to speak, not in the slightest. Despite his behaviour, he's terribly conscious of the fact that those thoughts that have occupied all too much of his brainspace for the last while—the last twenty-two days, to be precise—are ludicrous, absurd, and completely inappropriate for anyone in his position. And what is he to say, anyway?  _ Forgive me, sir, I don't mean to keep you, only I've engineered this encounter because I quite enjoy the sensation of not being able to breathe at the slightest indication you're happy with my work, and it's gotten rather out of hand the amount of time I spend deciding what I wouldn't do to convince you that your faith in me isn't misplaced, and in fact I haven't found anything yet so if only you'd let me, sir, I would be so much more than pleased to get on my knees and _ —oh Rassilon, Omega and the Other,  _ no.  _

And thus he's left standing there with his mouth agape, keenly aware that his cheeks are burning,  _ agonizingly _ aware that Vansell's hand hasn't left his shoulder entirely by accident and that he longs for it not to be accidental, that his entire being aches with the desire to be held and caressed and patted on the back, kissed and smiled at and praised, anything, he doesn't care what, anything to indicate Vansell's favour. It hurts, more than any staser wound or lashing or electrocution he's endured to get to this position, and he finds himself deliberating yet again on whether he could soothe that ache by leaning forward  _ just a touch. _ He thinks he may have lost his mind. 

Something about his wide-eyed, red-faced, speechless state must have inspired mercy in Vansell, for his perpetual mask of businesslike neutrality softens. He takes a step closer, a cautious sort of compassion in his eyes, and Narvin swallows hard. 

"You know, Narvin," he says quietly. "You needn't worry."

Narvin fights to stop his respiratory bypass from kicking in as his gaze flicks to Vansell's lips. "Worry about what, sir?" he asks, in a tone so even he allows himself a brief moment of pride. 

He watches Vansell take in every detail of his expression—a spy to the last—and his hearts, already skipping dangerously, seem to stop entirely at the rather odd sense of clinical intimacy it creates. 

Vansell hums, as if affirming a silent suspicion. "I've seen that look before. I am afraid that I can hardly make promises—this is the CIA, after all, and not only is a modicum of constant competition a powerful motivator, it is also tradition—but I do believe that your job is safe for the time being. You're an exemplary agent. You'll make a fine Coordinator one day, though I suspect I may be breaking some unspoken law of self-preservation by saying so. What I can promise–" a tiny smile quirks at the corner of his mouth– "is that you need not ingratiate yourself with me, Sub-Coordinator. In any way." 

Narvin can't resist checking to make sure his psychic barriers are completely intact, even as the words echo wildly in his mind. "Sir?" he says hoarsely. 

Vansell pats his shoulder lightly, still smiling, and continues on his way. It occurs to Narvin, distantly, that this is very, very far from a simple gesture of kindness, and that he's just lost a power play more spectacularly than he ever has in all his lives. It's the CIA, after all. But the embarrassment of such an error is rather outshone by the pure, blessed relief that washes over him. 

Relief—is that supposed to happen, following what was clearly both a gentle accusation of brown-nosing and a rejection of any possible future advances? Is he supposed to breathe easier, as though a weight's been lifted from his shoulders, knowing that regardless of what he does or doesn't want to do on a personal level, no grovelling is necessary to earn his security? He never intended to grovel, or to brown-nose. But he does wonder whether love, or infatuation or lust or attachment or whatever else one wants to call it, is supposed to feel like a burden to be eased. 

"Thank you," he says suddenly, stopping Vansell at the end of the row of shelves. "Coordinator."

Vansell dips his head graciously, and, though slightly puzzled, spares him not a glance as he walks away. 

Narvin doesn't think of him any more. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [stcrmpilot.tumblr.com](https://stcrmpilot.tumblr.com). Make me atone for this.


End file.
